by Laila El-Haddad

Gaza - Far away from its roots in the Bronx of New York, rap is finding a new voice as a group of young Palestinians sing about the frustrations of life under occupation in the Gaza Strip.

As I enter the small soundproof recording room in central Gaza, I am greeted by something rather unexpected. Yes, it is music, yes.

But not the usual, hip-shaking kind that one has become accustomed to hearing on the ever-increasing Arabic satellite music stations. It is rap; it is potent; and it is in Arabic.

Sitting in front of the recording equipment is 22 year-old Nadir Abu Ayash, a member of Gaza's first ever hip-hip group PR (Palestinian Rappers), and who provides many of the song's identifiable background sounds - with no special effects.

"Rap is our way of resisting the occupation, it's our weapon," he explains timidly in a manner that seems incongruent with his gravelly voice and the harsh lyrics that blast out from the stereo speakers behind him.

By Andrew Kirkman

WEDNESDAY NIGHT at Kalandiya checkpoint. It's about 9 p.m.; even on a regular day they close the barrier at 10, so we're wondering if we'll get through. The bus driver already gave up: he'll be spending the night on his bus. A car bomb went off here today, and the soldiers are not letting anyone pass. Tempers start to get frayed; a youth is hauled off; a soldier swaggers around with a gun yelling at people to stand where he has decided he wants them to stand. Cell phones ring: the same banal jingles you hear everywhere in the States, the familiarity strangely jarring in such a-for me-unfamiliar scene.

I'm here-my first visit-playing with the largely German orchestra that's been brought in to accompany the "al Fawanees" musical at the Ramallah Cultural Palace. In fact the German element may be the reason we're still here: someone later tells me he overheard one of the soldiers remarking that he heard German being spoken; that was apparently enough to stop us passing straight through. We had to wait in the scrum with everyone else-yet another of those occasions, which quickly become routine, when you realize you're on the receiving end of the random whim of some kid who happens to be wearing a uniform. In fact the Germans nearly didn't get further than the airport: without the intervention of their diplomatic top brass (and a five-hour wait) they'd have been on the next plane home, and two years of preparation and planning would have been for nothing.